Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 48, June, 1854

"Why should they not have such feelings?" inquired Mrs. Clark.

"Their education is so different."

"Does education always give sensibility? Do you not think it possible for those that must work for a living to be possessed of it?"

"I should suppose they might do something that would not expose them to the contempt that is shown to such as are 'girls in the kitchen.' Why, even the higher servants despise them."

"Would it not be better if all were considerate enough not to contemn any one? Then there would be no danger of wounding sensibilities that are none the less acute because they are found in the breast of a servant." Mrs. Clark said this softly, and with a slight quiver, perceptible only when you looked at her.

I was sitting by the window for the sake of the light. Sarah Marshall, who was spending a week with Isabel Clark, was chatting as usual when Mrs. Clark came in with a neighbor, who was telling of the impudence of a servant who, when she was accused of falsehood, replied, "There is none of my father's family that can lie."

"Did she lie?" innocently inquired Sarah.

"No, it was found she told the truth; but then, it was her independent manner that was so offensive."

"Do you not think servants ought to have independence enough to defend themselves from an unjust accusation?" asked Mrs. Clark.

"Her saying so proved nothing; we found out the truth ourselves. If she had waited, she would not have lost her place. I am sorry for her, I am sure. If you do not want her, I do not know what will become of her. Her family are quite destitute."

"Do you not need her help?"

"Oh, yes; but, then"----

"You are satisfied of her innocence, you say; why not have her come back to you?"

"That would be too humiliating. I never give my servants a chance to triumph over me in that way."

The visitor departed, and the conversation was continued, as at the commencement of the story.

Mrs. Clark was a lady. It was not necessary to inquire who her ancestors were, to be sure of that; yet it was not her dress, or manner, or voice, or sentiments, either of them, alone, but harmony and appropriateness in everything she said or did, that left with you that impression. In her presence you never thought whether she was handsome or well-dressed, but, on leaving her, you would be more than ever in love with moral beauty.

In the evening, we girls--I call myself one of them, though so much older--were sitting round the fireplace in the pleasant room; it was just fit for dreaming or story-telling, at twilight, when Sarah referred to the conversation of the morning, wondering if Mrs. Hart had conquered her pride, or poor Anna had found a place.

"I have always pitied servants," said she; "it seems that they ought to know their place; yet, if they are unjustly accused, it is hard if they must lose a home when they defend themselves."

"For my part," said Isabel, "I like to see ladies know their places, as well as servants. What right has any one to charge another with falsehood, and expect them to be silent under the false charge, merely because they have agreed to give them the labor of their hands for a paltry sum counted out to them on Saturday night? Anna was educated to thoughts and habits of strict integrity, and I do not wonder at her proud retort."

Isabel had been indignant all day, but had controlled her lips till now; her eyes flashed as she spoke, and, when she was done, she went to the piano and played several spirited airs with even more spirit than was necessary; then, turning to us, said--

"Did mother ever tell you her history?"

"No," said Sarah.

"Nor you, Miss Bell?"

"Never."

"She wrote it out for me a year ago. I will read it to you, if you wish."

Now, I had often wished to know her earlier life, but did not think it right for Isabel to read to us what was probably written for her alone; so I ran up stairs, where Mrs. Clark was engaged with the younger children, and told her what Isabel proposed doing, inquiring if it met her approbation.

"I wrote it," said she, pleasantly, "as a lesson for my daughter; but I am willing others should be benefited with her."

Feeling that I had wronged Isabel by supposing she would do anything improper, I returned to the parlor just as she was ready to read the following:--

* * * * *

The first dream of my life was to be a school-teacher. The first morning of my going to school, the sweet lady who was teaching in our district took me on her lap, and asked me if I did not wish to become a school-teacher. I felt that to be like her would be pleasant; and so, from that time, it was the acme of my ambition to become what Polly Frazier was--pleasant name it is, even now--and I was careful about _this_, and I learned _that_, because it was necessary for a teacher to know such things. My parents and instructors encouraged the idea, and it was with me a settled purpose. I hardly know how young I was when I learned that, to teach successfully, I must govern well. I desired not to rule merely, but to instruct; and, when my teacher would let me hear the little ones read, how tearfully happy I was if I succeeded in giving them a new sound, or right pronunciation!

Thus time passed with me until I was twelve, when my father came from an eastern State to Pennsylvania. Soon after, by one of those great wrongs, where no one is to blame, my father lost the little property he brought with him to this part of the country, and a family of eight was dependent on what he could earn at his trade. Money was scarce and provisions dear, and you may judge of my feelings when my father came home every day more and more tired, and our resources became day by day more and more reduced; for, though my mother was a good manager, yet there are limits beyond which it is impossible to manage at all.

If I could only do something! I thought it over at night, but said nothing. I knew I was not prepared to teach even children, or, at least, no one would think I was, and that was all the same, for all the good it would do me, and I must give up the thought of it, at least for the present.

I could not tell you all the day-dreams I had about the one thing, how I could help my father. At last I found a way to help myself, and thus help him, by reducing the number of mouths at home, and also adding something to a wardrobe that was becoming quite scanty.

I became acquainted with a girl some years older than myself, who was "working out." She earned seventy-five cents a week. I had done nearly all of the kinds of work at home that were expected of her; why, then, could I not obtain as much? I saw no reason why I should not. True, girls of my own age had but fifty cents, but then they never washed or ironed, except coarse clothing, while I could do all, except the finest.

"Where there is a will, there is a way;" so I soon was from home trying my best. I need not tell you how much I was disappointed in some things; but, as yet, I saw no reason why my main object could not be accomplished. I was the more encouraged to hope this, as it was evident the people were satisfied with my endeavors, and said I "was as much help as those who were four or five years older."

I had been there six weeks before anything was said about my pay. The family sewing was done for the winter, and they did not keep help only at times, so I was not needed; and, as a matter of _ceremony_, I was asked "what I expected a week." I had all along thought they would not hesitate to give me as much as older girls received, inasmuch as they had often said I was as much help. I even thought they would have the delicacy to give me that amount without the ceremony of asking how much I expected. The manner of asking me, however, made me think that perhaps I had over-estimated my services, and I rather hesitatingly said five shillings would do.

How they stared at me! I then found that, for all I had done more than was expected of my age, I had my pay in praise; something I did not value, only as it helped me to forward my main design. Still, fifty cents a week and my board was better than doing nothing at home, so I submitted to what was inevitable. Thus passed the years until I was sixteen. In the interval, I had managed to attend school three months. I helped about house mornings and evenings, and stayed at home Mondays to wash. At some places I was permitted to read or study, if I could get the usual work out of the way; besides, I kept a book or paper by me, and thus picked up and pondered over many thoughts that would have escaped me, if I had had the opportunity of reading as much as I wished; for, during this time, I used to get as hungry for mental food as ever woodcutter did for physical aliment. The kind of reading I had made me earnestly desire to attend school. Philosophical, chemical, or botanical allusions were often made, and I could only half understand what I read, even with the help of the dictionary.

A change of employment offered, which I eagerly accepted, as it brought back my old dreams of the pleasure I should enjoy as a school-teacher. An assistant was required in the village school. I was too eager to get the place to inquire about the remuneration, and I enjoyed myself too well to think about it much; but I took for granted that I should have a dollar a week, and consequently should be able to attend the academy the next winter. I was disappointed when, at the close of the term, I found I was to be allowed only seventy-five cents, or what I was able to get as a "hired girl," though I boarded at father's. I had some time to study, or the disappointment would have been even greater. By working for my board, I found I could attend the district school.

The reputation I acquired as a teacher of the lady I assisted, was the means of my being employed in an adjoining district; but, as much as I desired the situation, and as much as I loved teaching, and wished to do my duty, I always considered that school a failure. Not that any one complained of me, for the pupils improved; but everything became too mechanical, and, while they learned their lessons well, their minds seemed to rest, not expand, and I did not know how to remedy the evil. Still, I loved my school, and set myself to learn why I had failed.

As I studied _myself_, I was more than ever conscious of my deficiencies in mental cultivation, and of a hungering after mental food. Every chance I had for study I improved. I was too conscious of a want of preparation for teaching to offer myself as a teacher, so I must do what I could.

Just then an incident occurred that roused more pride than I had supposed I possessed. One Sabbath, in the interval between the morning and afternoon service, a lady came to me, and, in a manner intended to be very kind, said--

"Are you going to attend the examination of teachers on Saturday?"

"I have not decided. I am not engaged as a teacher."

"Well, never mind, go. If you cannot pass examination so well as Samantha and the rest, go; it will do you good."

Samantha was her daughter, and had always been at school, and consequently ought to have known more than she did; but opportunity does not always make scholars any more than want of opportunity prevents others from becoming such. Now, I had been at school with Samantha, and knew that, if _she_ could bear examination as fitted for a teacher, _I_ could; and I resolved to attend, and, if opportunity was given, I also would be examined with the rest. And I did, and have _that_ certificate now.

No opportunity offered for teaching, however; in fact, I hardly desired one, until I had more chance for improvement myself. I made my arrangements, as I thought, for attending school the next winter; but winter came, and the next summer passed, and still I was as far from what I so earnestly desired as ever. I could not pay my board, and I could not always get a place where I could work mornings and evenings for it; my clothes would be worn; so, with one thing and another, it seemed impossible that I should ever be anything but a drudge. Not that my pride rebelled against doing the _kind_ of work I did, but so constant and ceaseless and unsympathizing a round of duties left no time for thinking except of what was just about me.

The elasticity of spirits that had sustained me heretofore was failing me; for, worn with labor, I felt my mind, as it were, contracting upon itself, and felt, if I could not break from the bondage, I should be miserable enough. For that I could see no way. Now I had a dollar a week, and I must earn it. My employers seemed to consider it treason against them if I so much as looked into a book. From early in the morning until ten, eleven, and often until the "small hours," I must labor; and, if I so much as made myself a garment, I was charged for it, as if it had been hired for me. I submitted to many impositions rather than contend about them, though I questioned with myself if it was to last always. It did not last always. I will relate one incident that occurred, and pass on to pleasanter days.

A glass dish that was cracked about half way across, I accidentally finished breaking. I went immediately to the sitting-room, and explained how it was done. Mrs. ---- did not appear displeased at what I had done; told me not to mind; it was an old dish; she had expected for some time it would come apart; there was enough more; told me what one to use in place of it. There was also considerable conversation on the impropriety of fretting if anything was accidentally broken; and she ended by saying, "I make it a point _never_ to reproach my girls if an accident occurs."

I left the room, feeling grateful that such was her practice, and thinking how pleasant it would be if all could think so, not only about accidents, but other things, and be careful not to "break the bruised reed." I thought, too, that though many persons did not seem to sympathize with those who labor for them, it was more in seeming than real. This incident showed me that our feelings were regarded.

A few days after this, Mrs. ---- came into the kitchen to make some preparation for company, and when she wanted a dish inquired about that one. I thought it strange if she had forgotten it, and reminded her of its being broken.

"Yes, and I think very carelessly broken, too."

A very expressive remark, I thought, after her boasted forbearance, and it stung none the less that the dart was unexpected.

* * * * *

My long-desired wish was gratified, and I was spending the winter at the academy, and among friends who took an interest in my welfare, and assisted me whenever they could. The prospect was fair before me of my being able to prepare for what I had wished from childhood. Still, envy and contempt had a shaft or two, but they generally flew too high or too low, for I knew a _man_ would "_be a man for a' that_."

A little boy said to me one day, tauntingly: "Mother says you can't be a schoolma'am anyhow; anybody as has allus been a servant don't know 'nough. I sha'n't go to school to you."

"Ah, you think you would not like to come then?" said I, pleasantly.

"If mother would let me."

Then, looking up to me in a confiding way, he asked: "Is it bad to be a servant?"

Heaven bless the child! thought I, as I kissed his face, sweet now with gentle thoughts; why must such hearts be poisoned with bitter and contemptuous thoughts?

It was nearly spring when a party was made by one of the principal families of the village. Some of the pupils of the academy were to leave before the term expired, and it was intended as a compliment to them. Some of the villagers had begun to think the habits of our village too primitive, and that "hired girls," farmers' sons, and apprentices, should no longer be invited to the village gatherings. To this party I was among the uninvited. I was too proud, too independent, too much intent on my studies to resent it, and intended not to notice it. One does not like to be the subject of deliberate neglect; but all I meant to do about it was to prepare myself for the future, and I resolved _my_ future should be such that they and their descendants would be proud to associate with me.

A young gentleman, a favorite in the village, boarding at the same place, asked permission to attend me to the party. His favorite girl was a particular friend of mine, and he had been escort to both on a previous occasion, but now she was out of the village. Without telling him I could not go, and for what reason, I endeavored to put him off to go alone, or find another lady, saying, "I must learn my lessons; I did not like to be out late."

He knew that, but had resolved I should go this time, as I had successfully excused myself before. He protested I was studying too much; a social evening would do me good; said he would come home as soon as I said, after nine o'clock. Thus he endeavored to overrule all my objections and excuses.

There was no _real_ reason why I should not go with him, only the one why I should not go at all. I did not intend to tell him I had such an one, but he gave me no peace until I told him I could not go, and why.

"No invitation!" repeated he, in astonishment; "how is that?"

"Excuse me; I must keep my suspicions to myself."

He sat thoughtfully a few moments, then, starting up as if a new thought occurred to him, said--

"I understood they were not intending to invite 'hired girls;' but why should they slight you? You are as much a pupil at the academy as any one there."

"Yes, but I work for my board, and next summer I shall probably be 'hired girl' again."

"Well," said he, pleasantly, "we can have a party here."

I protested against his staying on my account.

"Yes, yes, they made me promise to come, but I insisted on qualifying it with 'providential,' and I consider this I have learned quite in that light. Nay, speak not, I command you. I _shall not_ go. I only wish Mary was at home. However, we can have a pleasant evening here, and no thanks to the 'codfish aristocracy.'"

The next day, inquiry was made after Mr. ----, and why he did not attend the party; but he gave them no more satisfaction than they were entitled to. Afterward I was invited whenever there was a party; I did not care about going always, though I was glad to have my right to an invitation unquestioned, as, according to my definition of respectable, a man or woman either was so who could _conscientiously_ respect himself.

The next summer, and for years, until my marriage, I had the satisfaction of knowing that my schools were not failures. Though I had anticipated so long, the enjoyment was equal to the anticipation.

Here Mrs. Clark's history of her days of trial ceased.

* * * * *

"Why did she not write more of her school-teaching life?" I asked. "I should like to hear her account of it; I am sure it would be interesting."

"It is," said Isabel; "she has related many incidents to me that are very amusing, and some pathetic. I will ask her to tell you about them some time. This she wrote for me to correct some very foolish notions I had acquired at Mrs. W.'s school. Who would think, after seeing mother, that work must necessarily degrade any one? You know Burritt says: 'If a man thinks at his work, his thoughts are strong,' and mother exemplifies it; her thoughts are also gentle."

Again Isabel resorted to the piano, but this time it was accompanied by a gentle evening hymn.

[Illustration]

TIME'S CHANGES; OR, FASHIONS IN THE OLDEN TIMES.

JULY, 1730.

_Extracts from the Diary of my Greatgrand-mother._

_Five o'clock._--Got up an hour before my usual time to distil surfeit-water. Said my prayers. Finished one of my father's new shirts. Mem. To send to town for some currants, raisins, and ratafia water.